


Whistle I'll Be There

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, Matt's canonical shaky mental health, mentions of Matt's canon past traumas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25199218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt's not sleeping well or enough and will not admit it, and Foggy worries and takes measures.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 104
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Marvel Fluff Bingo, Marvel Undercover 2020





	Whistle I'll Be There

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel), beta extraordinaire and much more versed into Musicals lore than this ficcer... and Foggy needs such references :D
> 
> Also fits my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _wound that wouldn't heal_ (not a physical wound, but hey, we all know Matt's got wounds of all kinds ;-) and Marvel Fluff Bingo prompt _healer_ (not that we're talking magical insta-healing here, but hey, it Gets Better!).
> 
> Written for Marvel Undercover 2020 for the prompt: _Singing always seems to stop the nightmares. Trouble is, Matt doesn't ever remember Foggy singing to him in the middle of the night_

Matt is still down for the count when Foggy wakes up; his face (what is visible of it, anyway) is all slack and he’s hugging Foggy’s pillow like he would deny ever hugging a teddy bear as a child. Oh no, not Matt “Tragic Backstory” Murdock. If asked, he'd probably say his dad didn’t have money for stuffed animals, or that his asshole mentor literally beat any desire for one out of him, or at best (well, ‘best’; one learned to have low standards re: what healthy means, with Matt) that he slept with his dead father’s robe until he decided he should preserve it instead of using it for comfort. Because Matt Murdock, of course.

He’s infuriating, but Foggy somehow can’t get enough and has been addicted since college.

 _Being Matt Murdock_ is reason enough for plenty of idiotic, self-sacrificing, reckless behavior, but Foggy also wishes it didn’t mean night terrors or crying bouts in the small hours of the morning while he should be, finally, resting. Matt works a full day at their office and when night comes, puts on dark clothes and wraps some ropes around his fists to go run around the Kitchen and punch bad people in the face for several hours. And get punched in return. And cut. And shot at. And – yeah, you get the idea. Foggy would really like it if he didn’t have such a vivid idea of what it’s like, _really_ like, when Matt comes back a bloody, shaky mess.

But he does.

So really, enforcing a little catnap in the early evening and wrangling a promise to stay the fuck home at least two nights per week (Foggy’s pretty proud of that win) can’t be enough. Matt’s sleep debt is terrifying to contemplate, and he’s not – as far as Foggy can tell – taking any sort of drugs to keep up with his daytime life, apart from coffee and sheer Murdockness. Which is, admittedly, pretty potent, but it also got his dad killed, so.

And you know what? This sleep deprivation thing that Matt’s got going on, it’s also impacting Foggy’s own beauty sleep. Matt’s handsome wounded duck charm may get even stronger with every new bruise, with every darker shade of purple under his eyes, but Foggy? Foggy’s just a regular guy; his skin turns gray and his eyes get smaller or something similarly attractive. The dazzling, swanky suits he bought when he was working at HB&C can only hide so much. So, while he knows he's not going to stop Daredevil from being Daredevil, he’d like his partner in work and life to, like. Sleep. _Actually_ sleep, if only for the full what, 4 hours? he allows himself on average.

Matt stays with Foggy most nights now; Foggy asked him to and Matt said yes so quickly Foggy suspects he was hoping for it but didn’t dare ask himself. And yes, Foggy believes waking up together is worth putting up with the worry every time he opens an eye at night and finds the bed cold next to him, worth putting up with the 2am first aid sesh or the 4am nightmares.

He would just like less of the worry, less of the hurt.

The nightmares aren’t new; it’s just Foggy hadn’t expected they’d still be a thing when they gave this getting-together-for-real thing a chance. But they are, and Matt’s still pretending everything’s fine, just like all those years ago in their little dorm room. He doesn’t seem to remember them during the day, never did, but they’re very real; he’s managed to get Matt to say that, yes, he was having bad dreams if he woke up right after but as soon as it’s daytime, it’s back to Matt Murdock, Handsome Wounded Duck and Lawyer With A Swagger. No room for nightmares there, nope, not at all. But Foggy suspects they’ve been a constant issue since at least his teenage years, which is a not insignificant amount of time. At this point, Foggy isn’t even counting the years they’ve known each other; there have been _many_ and he’ll leave it at that, thank you very much. Not that they’re old or anything, of course, haha. Spring chickens, the both of them.

Foggy shakes his head and finally leaves the bed; he creaks his way to the kitchen to start the coffee maker and checks his phone for new messages while the former works its magic. Theo wanting to brainstorm ideas for their parents’ wedding anniversary, Karen’s scathing but funny recap of her date last night, and an email from Marci.

 _Hey_ , it says, _landed in Lagos last night. Still pretty jet-lagged, but started work with the Ministers of Justice this afternoon! You were right to tell me to go for it; this is all super exciting and I’m glad I took them up on their offer. Of course, I can’t tell you…_

Foggy smiles as he reads. He remembers when Amnesty International got in touch with Marci and asked her to join them six months ago. She hesitated; they were supposed to be working on their relationship and thinking about a wedding, instead of having one of them jetting around the world saving journalists, activists, and the like.

But at that point, they were more friends and roommates than anything else, whether they wanted to admit it or not, and she’d grown more and more restless in her job as a corporate lawyer. She didn’t hate it, but it was one more thing in her life that dragged her down.

So they sat at the table, hashed it all out, and he convinced her to go for it. Jump in, leave boredom and staleness behind, and go make a difference out there. She’s always been a brilliant lawyer and she’ll shine; he knows it. So after a few weeks to wrap up her life in New York, she flew out to London and started a new life. And she’s happy now; whenever they Skype he can see how much more she smiles, how happy she looks.

And, well. So does he, Foggy suspects, cut-short nights and vigilantism-related worry or not.

When the coffee maker has finished spluttering, he puts his phone down and fills two mugs with fresh coffee that he brings back to the bedroom. Matt is still mostly asleep, but he's fully migrated to Foggy’s side of the bed and has to be hip-checked back to his own so they can share mattress space like Good Boyfriends. Since that is what they are, now.

“Early,” Matt whines.

“No, buddy; it’s…” Foggy glances at the old phone he uses as an alarm clock. “Eight forty. You just came back at something like half-past three.”

“Did not.”

“Uh huh.”

Foggy waits until Matt fully emerges from the covers with a bedhead even more spectacular than his hearing and fabric marks imprinted on his cheeks, and puts the mug in his waiting hands.

“You were sleeping when I left.”

“Yep. Got up to get some water at three something, saw you were still gone, heard the roof access door open a bit later then the shower turn on.”

“I didn’t tire you out enough before putting on the mask if you woke up in the middle of the night, then,” and hey, he has no right to look both so cocky and so adorably rumpled.

“You’ll have to up your game if you want me out for the entire night, Matty.”

Ooh yes, Matt Murdock’s competitive streak has just been tickled and he grins. “You’re on.”

“Drink your coffee and get dressed, we’ve got that meeting with Mr. Dagov in an hour.”

Matt still manages to steal a kiss that Foggy doesn’t really try to prevent before they put on their Lawyerly Suits of Law and go out into the world, or at least the streets, and walk to work with, fine, a detour via their favorite bakery.

Foggy is dedicated to his job, and if that means getting breakfast for the firm, then so be it. Sacrifices will have to be made.

But still, Foggy finds it harder and harder to pretend everything's just fine on Matt’s end. Sure, he’s always been a hot mess (emphasis on… okay, emphasis on both), but Foggy’s pretty sure it’s getting worse and he can’t figure out what the problem is. Their firm is doing well, Matt is building a bond with his mother (who is a nun, because Matt Murdock), and their own thing, their relationship, is great. Matt has agreed to wear some protective gear; he’s not going out every night; he tells Foggy when he gets back home, if he needs help or if he’s just hitting the shower. Foggy accepts that Matt takes insane risks, that he can’t and won’t stop, that it takes time for him to open up and just… talk, sometimes. But they’re getting better, and they’ve left the secrets behind, and they’re happy. Right?

So why the nightmares? What’s wrong?

When he asks, Matt says he doesn’t know what Foggy’s talking about, and as far as he can tell – and Foggy knows his Matty pretty well at this point – he’s not lying. He just… doesn’t remember, somehow. Well, repression comes to him naturally, Foggy thinks ruefully, but still. At least the tricks that worked in college still do; back then he often hummed while working or poring over lecture notes, and Matt had been the only person who never, ever criticized his singing. Which, now Foggy thinks of it, is even more baffling now than it was then given his crazy hearing and very probable perfect pitch. But whenever Matt was restless, tossing and turning on his narrow bed, a bit of Foggy Nelson’s Dulcet Tones Special worked its soothing magic on him and he quieted.

After the Elektra debacle, the need was particularly strong: Matt wouldn't sleep, _refused_ to sleep for days, before crashing in the middle of the afternoon and then, well. It wasn’t pretty. But that was when Foggy noticed that whenever he hummed as he read a textbook, Matty would finally calm down and (actually) sleep.

The magic still works like a charm, and Foggy’s not quite sure how to feel about that. Okay, yes, it feels good to know he can bring peace to the man he loves; it’s great even. But does it mean that Matt’s never found another way to cope with them in all this time? That no one ever told him about them, since Matt isn’t even aware of the issue, forgets (represses, really) all about it an hour or two later? Foggy knows very well that sex (good, great, really great) sex is no guarantee the terrors won’t make an appearance; has Matt had no lovers or, at any rate, no lovers who cared enough to tell him?

That’s fucked up.

Foggy’s seen how so many people just fall over themselves around Matt, how he charms left and right and could sleep with a different hottie (always hot people, somehow) every night if he wanted to. He certainly made the most of it in college and in their early, baby lawyers days, apart from a few months long hiatus after Elektra. But maybe there hasn’t really been anyone since then, and maybe those early days flings never really cared for more than bagging the cute blind guy. And why would they? Matt never made them promises either, of that Foggy is certain.

And so Foggy’s back to square one: that is not knowing why, or since when, and above all how to help.

At lunchtime, usually on the days he doesn’t go out as Daredevil, Matt goes to the old gym. It’s reopened, and the guys there don’t bother Matt; some regulars knew his father and sometimes chat with him, and the others only see that blind guy who comes to hit a bag and that no one would dare go a round with. Blind guy, you know? Wouldn't be fair, right? (Well, it wouldn't, but not for the reason they think.) So they leave him alone, or they hold the heavy bag for him and tell him about his dad, and Foggy has decided it is a perfectly good and healthy kind of normal person interaction that Matt should definitely cultivate, so he encourages it.

If he goes today, it means Foggy is free to go to St. Agnes and talk to Sister Maggie, which: all the better. He’s not entirely sure what Matt told her about their relationship, but given that Foggy only discovered that she’s his mom because of Matt’s general embarrassment to talk about her led him to, well, investigate, it doesn’t bode well. Okay, so by _investigate_ he means that he asked Karen about it because she always has the dirt on everyone, and oh boy did she deliver.

Somehow, Matt knows he knows, and they just… don’t talk about it. Ever. Foggy’s willing to give him time; it’s pretty new and probably still overwhelming to think about for a guy who thought himself an orphan for most of his life. And whose mom actually works in the orphanage he grew up in. And – seriously, so fucked up. Only Matt Murdock could reach such heights of fucked-up-ness.

Anyway, Foggy figures she might have some insight, or at least be able to tell him if he had those nightmares as a child, too. He doesn’t know how she’s going to take it, having her son’s partner come ask questions, but Foggy’s got to try. But… how’s he going to introduce himself? _Hi, we’re partners – work partners, haha, nothing else? We’re partners, and not only at work, wink wink?_ She’s not stupid, but she’s also a nun. They’re not supposed to approve of not-straightness, right? Well, okay, she dumped Jesus for Matt’s dad, then dumped _him_ to go back to Jesus, but also she was very sick and probably carries a bunch of guilt from it all. Yeah, Matty comes by his shit honestly; between his badly depressive mom and his suicide-by-mob-for-the-good-of-my-child dad… right. It’s a miracle Matt’s mostly functional, truly. And the thought he overcame all of that makes Foggy love him even more, and he didn’t think it was possible, and _shit_ , he’s got to take a minute to have Murdock Feelings.

There, feelings had. Karen’s left to have lunch with Ellison, they don’t have any appointments before 2: it’s time to go.

When Foggy gets to the church, he realizes he has no idea of where to find her. Should he have gone to the orphanage, instead? Where do nuns live? They’re probably not sleeping in coffins in the crypt, right? He looks around; maybe he’ll spot someone and ask them – ask them what, in fact? _Hi, I’m looking for Sister Mom_? He sits on a pew. Or he could just knock on the orphanage’s door and ask to see her? Would that be weird? Yes, of course it would be weird; no one knows him there. A strange guy, going to an orphanage… Shit. He didn’t think it through, did he?

But he’s here, and he’s got to do _something_. He stands up again, looks at burning candles on a rack, and thinks about how Matt must perceive them – the smell, the heat? Does he remember light? Does their symbolism mean anything to a blind guy? Does he light candles, sometimes? Maybe Foggy could…

“Father Esposito isn’t feeling well; confession is canceled for today.”

Foggy turns around; a short, thin nun is looking up at him. Her voice is dry and not particularly warm or inviting; her gaze is more piercing than peaceful. “Uh, hi. I’m not here for confession; I’m looking for a sister called Maggie?”

She raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

Wow, if that’s the kind of warm care a just-orphaned Matty got… “We have a mutual acquaintance.” Shit, and now he sounds like he’s threatening said acquaintance, Godfather-style.

She sighs through her nose, then turns on her heel. “Follow me,” she says, and she leads him through a door, into a corridor, down stairs, through an empty room with long tables and benches, up more stairs, and finally they’re outside. Foggy blinks in the sunlight then looks down at the sister.

“Did you just politely kick me out?”

“There was no kicking involved that I remember, Mr. Nelson.” He blinks some more. “Now I can see your face, I recognize you from the papers. You made headlines a few times, with and without Matthew.”

“Um.”

She smirks at him, then sits on the stairs that lead down into a little yard. He joins her. There’s a swing at the other end, an abandoned ball near the wall, patches of grass here and there. “I wasn’t expecting you to visit, or at least not without Matthew. I thought he might bring you here, one day. Hoped.”

Foggy’s a lawyer; words are his job and he’s good at them. They're his best weapon, and he’s honed it since childhood. So: “Oh,” he replies eloquently.

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Mr. Nelson.”

“Call me Foggy,” he says. Three whole words, go him.

“Maggie. As I imagine you’ve guessed.” He nods, and she continues. “You don’t look worried; I assume he’s, ah, _fine_?”

“As fine as usual.”

“That’s not entirely reassuring, as I’m sure you know.”

“He’s got a spectacular bruise on his ribs, but nothing’s broken.”

“And how do you know about a bruise on his _ribs_?”

Aw, shit, he’s just outed Matt to his nun mom. He tries to think of something, anything, that wouldn't sound like a pitiful excuse, but she cracks up and that shuts him up before he’s even started saying anything.

“Don’t look so shocked; I know you’re sleeping with Matthew.”

Foggy may have made an embarrassing noise.

“What? Are _you_ ashamed of it?”

“Urk,” and yes, it’s totally a word. Foggy clears his throat and starts again. “He… told you?”

“Don’t be silly, of course not. But he talks about you a lot, and when I asked what your relationship was exactly he turned red and clammed up.”

“Oh. Oh, uh, it’s a recent development, all things considered.”

“Well, I hope it’s doing you as much good as it is him.”

“You’re not… bothered? That I’m a guy?”

“Why, because I live in a convent and wear a veil?”

“Well, yes,” he says and feels a little like a jerk. She wouldn’t turn on Matt because of that, would she? Of course not.

“Matthew’s not…” She sighs. “Happiness doesn’t come easily to him, and neither does peace. It’s my fault, in part, but what’s done is done; I did what I thought was best then, and only hindsight is 20/20. As long as it brings him peace and happiness I don't care who he’s with. Do you understand?”

Foggy nods.

“So what made you come here? It’s not just to see my face, I imagine.”

“No, I… You’ve known him for a long time. Obviously. Uh.” Shit, the foot-in-mouth disease hit again. “I mean, I’ve noticed something, and I thought maybe you’d have tips, or ideas.” She hums encouragingly when he stops, so he resumes speaking. “He doesn’t sleep well. He already doesn’t sleep _enough_ , but even when he does… he’s got night terrors, sometimes he cries in his sleep. There's the nightmares, too. Not every night, but often enough. It’s not new; when we shared a room at Columbia it was already a thing. I just…” He shrugs, feeling helpless. “I usually manage to stop it, but I’d rather it didn’t happen to start with.”

“Ah.” She looks at the swing and purses her lips. “It started after the accident. Jack – his father – told Father Lantom, and Paul told me. It seemed, ah, _understandable_ , given the circumstances. I went to see him in the hospital, but he was sleeping and I didn’t go again; I was too much of a coward.” Maggie blinks rapidly, but her voice never wavers. “When he came here…” She takes a moment to breathe in, breathe out. “He would call out every night. I’d go to him, hold his hand, talk to him, until one night another child needed me and I couldn't… he was silent, after that.”

“No more terrors?”

“Oh, he still had them. But they were quiet; I only knew because if I walked past his room, I’d hear him crying. But he never called again, and I didn’t think I had a right to…” She shakes her head. “It happened again when he was here last year. He was in such a sorry state… he refused to talk to Paul, but we figured it was to be expected that it would take time; we just never knew how to get him any help. But he doesn’t find it easy to… well, to ask, in general. Both times, I hoped it would go away on its own, but of course…”

“Yeah, it hasn’t, but it’s not every night. Sometimes it doesn't happen for weeks, and then it comes back. He never remembers when I ask about it in the day, which is slightly creepy, but at least when I’m here I can calm him down.”

“Oh?”

“He – don’t laugh, please – he likes it when I sing. Matt’s probably the only person who can stand me singing while being sober, so I’ve used that little trick a lot.”

“How often?”

“Depends.” Okay, that’s it, can’t go back. “I think it’s getting worse, and I don’t know why. The firm's doing well, the night thing has been just regular thug control lately, and I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you _have_ to do anything?”

Foggy blinks at her. “Something’s bothering him.”

“When is it not?” She shakes her head. “Why is this your responsibility?”

“Because I…” Should he say it to Sister Mom? “I love him.”

“Love isn’t a cure for whatever ails him.”

“He can’t really go to a doctor, can he? _Hi, I can’t sleep, might be linked to my crazy senses because hey, have I mentioned this before, I’m Daredevil and I have super hearing_?”

“He needs to learn to ask for help and accept it. You can’t carry everything, anticipate everything for him.” She rubs her palms on the fabric over her knees. “We broke him,” she says. “I was the first, and then his father. We left him. And then there were others… We broke something in him, all of us.”

And all the sharp edges are still here; time never blunted them. Foggy thinks of the way Matt’s weaponized them, pushing people away before they could leave, telling himself it’s for their own good… yeah, Matt’s got many broken edges. Foggy knows them well; he’s cut himself on them more than once. It will happen again; he’s aware of that. He’s just made his choice.

“I think he’s working on that,” he says. “He doesn’t shut us out like he used to – me, Karen, Claire… He comes to you, too.”

“He misses Paul; we all do. I can’t replace him.”

“He listens to you.” Foggy almost takes her hand in his but he’s not sure it’s a thing one does with nuns, so his fingers twitch but remain hanging between his thighs. “I should go back. He’ll probably know I’ve been here, smell it on me or something.”

“He’s a show-off,” she says fondly.

“I think sometimes he does it just to be annoying.”

“Oh, absolutely. Tell him he still hasn’t made good on his promise to come talk to the children here and that I’m holding him to it. That should make him behave.”

Her grin is just a little bit too sharp for a nun, but Foggy suddenly sees her son in the sister’s face and it makes his heart do a thing in his chest. He stands up and holds out a hand for her, and she walks him outside. They don’t go through the same rooms, and he doesn’t go back to the church; the orphanage’s front door looks old and in need of sanding and a fresh coat of paint.

“Thank you, Sister.”

She manages to look down her nose at him although he has a good few inches on her. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Wow, if he was still a boy he’d definitely find her scary; as it is he can see the amused glint in her eye. “You’ve made me see the light,” he replies, and she huffs.

“I’m sure you know Mass is at 10 on Sundays. If you need more enlightenment.”

“Someone asks if I want to come every Sunday; I’m sure you’ll know if I ever do.”

She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly before going back inside, and Foggy takes his time walking back to the office. He buys a sandwich on his way, stops to get three coffees to help get them all through the afternoon, and begins plotting this evening’s conversation. Matt’s not going out tonight, and Foggy’s determined to use that time wisely. If Matt doesn’t remember the nightmares today, maybe he’ll remember the childhood ones, and that’s as good a starting point as any, right?

* * *

Matt knows Foggy’s been to the church and St. Agnes; he can smell it on him. The incense and the wood, the detergent and the burning candles… He’s not sure why Fogs would go there, but Matt suspects he wanted to see Maggie. He won’t ask; he’s got no right to. Matt hid too much in the past; he can’t demand to know all of Foggy’s secrets. And maybe it’s not even a secret, because Foggy can probably guess that he can’t really hide where he’s been. He’s not trying to anyway, and he could have: a quick dash home for a shower and new clothes, pretend a lunch or coffee mishap to justify it… not that Matt wouldn’t have been suspicious, but Foggy hadn't even _tried_ , is the point. So maybe they’ll talk about it tonight. Matt’s not sure he _wants_ to talk about it, though; what can it be about? _Hi, I went to see your mother behind your back_? Not that Matt is upset about that – it’s not how he imagined them meeting, but he doesn’t have any right to dictate it either – it’s just…

Ugh.

Anyway, the hours tick down – phone calls, two client meetings, some research on old cases, paperwork… and finally, finally, Foggy comes into Matt’s little office and knocks on the desk.

“Wrap it up, I’m not paying you overtime.”

Matt smiles. “You’re not the boss of me,” he replies.

“Yes, he absolutely is!” Karen singsongs from her own desk.

Matt tries to fight his smile, but it ends up on his face anyway. Ah well. He shoves the files in a mostly straight pile, sets it in the middle of his desk, and stands up. “I think Karen is the one paying us, right?”

“Well, I _am_ the one doing the paperwork, and without me to manage it…”

Foggy’s hair brushes against his jacket as he shakes his head. It’s longer, now. (Good.) “Okay, _you’re_ the boss, you win.”

Matt can feel her smug smile, even if he can’t see it, but he doesn’t want to stay here now that their workday is officially over. He wants to know why Foggy went to see his mother, wants to know what he and Maggie talked about. It’s been gnawing at him all afternoon, and he’s not sure he’s going to like the answer but also he’s pretty sure he's supposed to trust them, trust Foggy. Something he has no control over doesn’t always mean it’s going to be bad, right? She can’t have told him something that would make Foggy decide to break up with him, or that would be too much to handle, or maybe – maybe having a (sort-of) mother-in-law who’s a Catholic nun is going too far?

Not that he’s worried, but. Yeah, okay, he’s worried.

He shoulders his bag, grabs his cane, and takes Foggy’s elbow, trying very hard not to think he really should be extra aware of it in case Foggy said something like _Look, buddy, it’s been good, but this you and me thing, it’s not going to work out,_ or _We need to talk_ , or _You’re just too much for me to deal with_.

Because he _is_ ; Matt is fully aware he is. He lies and he hides, he takes risks. Worse: he puts the people he loves at risk. He’s too needy; he knows that’s why Stick left, but he doesn’t give half as much as he receives. He tightens his grip on Foggy’s arm as they walk, wants to feel the warm blood there and how… alive Foggy is. The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he gets that Foggy’s about to try and let him down gently. But Foggy won’t want to hurt him; he’s always been a good friend – a friend Matt doesn’t deserve. He’s never been good enough for Foggy, has he? He’s tried, yes, but he’s put Fogs through too much. And after visiting Maggie at the orphanage… It must be on his mind, how shit Matt is at balanced, healthy relationships. He clings, he clings so much people leave – or they die. Because of him. Matt really should spare Foggy the embarrassment; he owes it to him. He owes him way more than that, but that’s where he’ll start.

He takes a deep breath when they get in Foggy’s apartment, and as soon as the door closes he turns to face Foggy. He tries to calm his nerves, hopes his face isn’t betraying him. He resists the urge to wipe his palms on his thighs and forces a smile out, hands firmly wrapped around his cane so they don’t wander anywhere.

“Hey, uh.” _Smooth, Murdock_. “Don’t worry, I’ll just get my things and be out of your hair real soon.”

Foggy keeps quiet, but his heart rate goes up a bit.

“You don't need to say anything; I get it. And you’re right: it’s better that way, and you deserve…”

“What are you talking about, Matt?”

“You wanted to tell me something important.”

“Yeah, I wanted to ask about dinner.”

“Foggy…”

“Share a few beers, dinner, maybe then talk about stuff; I saw your mother today. As I’m sure you know.”

Matt’s fingers squeeze the cane’s rubber handle. “I know.”

“Your sleep issues are a bit of a problem, and I’m worried.”

“Yeah, you shouldn't have to deal with my issues, and I…”

“Oh God, are you having a self-sacrificing Murdock Martyr Moment?”

“…what?”

“Like that time you told me we were over, that our firm was over, because you’d decided it was better for me _and_ for you?”

“I…”

“Do you remember how wrong you were then?”

“But…”

“I guess it was coming, huh?”

“I know I’m not easy to, um, be with.”

“No shit. I know that, Matt; I know _you_. How long has it been already?”

“A… while?”

“Yeah, _a while_. I know what I’ve signed up for, buddy. No regrets, okay? And _you_ , you’re just not thinking straight, and that’s what I wanted to talk about. You’re not sleeping enough, and I’d prefer it if you didn't fall into one of your more unhinged phases.”

Matt gapes a little before closing his mouth. “So you’re not… kicking me out?”

“Not today, not tomorrow.”

“You just want to… talk?”

“After eating.”

“And beers?”

“Of course _and beers_. We’re attorneys; booze is in the job description.”

“Cheap booze?”

“We simply can’t forget our working-class roots. Grab some for us, will you? I’m going to ditch the suit and crash on the couch asap.”

Foggy gives him a quick peck on the lips, heartwarming in its easy familiarity, and Matt is left to breathe for a moment, inandout, inand out, in and out. Okay, now he can fold the cane, hang it on a peg, drop his bag under the coat rack.

He goes to splash his face in the bathroom while Foggy is carefully putting his suit on a hanger, and then Matt’s ready. They’re not breaking up tonight; all’s well.

All’s well.

They’re cuddled up on the couch, the TV at a low volume in front of them. Matt doesn't need it any louder, but he’s not paying attention, anyway. He’s waiting for Foggy to launch _the_ topic, and while he believes Foggy when he says they’re fine, he’s still not wholly comfortable. Not yet. He wants this talk to be over and done with so they can go to bed and touch each other and just – he likes Foggy’s skin, all right? It’s warm and soft and smells like home, now. It’s been familiar, a constant for so many years, and now he is _allowed_. He hadn’t really considered it in all the years before, and then it just… happened. Somehow. One day they were friends and the next Foggy was waking up in his silk sheets, and Matt still isn’t sure how they got from one point to another.

But now he’s got it, he’s not letting it go without a fight – unless Foggy wants out. Matt’s not going to force anyone to stay; he knows –

“Stop _thinking_ , Matty.”

“Uh?”

“I can hear your brain.” Foggy’s voice rumbles in his chest, and Matt likes listening to it. The air flowing in and out of Foggy’s lungs, the heart pumping blood, the little gurgles and bubbles that mean Foggy’s here, safe and sound. “Sister Maggie’s a little scary.”

Matt smiles. “She’d be happy to hear you say so.”

“I’m sure.” Foggy’s fingers card through Matt’s hair; it’s soothing. “You know, those nightmares you get?”

“Don’t remember them.”

“Yeah. But they’re getting more frequent.”

Matt raises his head from the comfortable chest it was on and aims his face at Foggy’s. “I’m waking you up.”

“No – well, yeah, but not the point. You’re not sleeping enough, Matty.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t sleep together anymore, then; I’ll go back to my apartment. I shouldn’t come back here after my rounds anyway; it’s not fair to you.”

“I _want_ you to come back to me. I like knowing you’re still alive, you know.” Foggy pushes Matt’s head back down so it back on his chest again. “No, what I meant was: how can we make it better?”

How? Matt has no damn idea. Does it matter? He’s fine; he’s functional, doing his work at the office, and then in the streets at night. It’s all fine. “Did you ask Maggie how she gets the kids to sleep, then?”

“I asked her about you.”

Matt tries not to tense up; he doesn’t want Foggy to notice.

“It wasn’t anything bad. I just thought if you don’t remember, maybe she does.”

Why would she? Matt was only one ward of many, and each with a sad story.

“She said it was pretty bad when you were a kid, and also when you ended up there again last year.”

“I don’t remember much from that time. After… you know. I was, uh, not really conscious for a long while.”

Foggy breathes a little weird, and Matt’s not sure why. Maybe he’s still upset that he let himself get caught under Midland Circle; maybe he’s still angry at Elektra.

“It wasn’t her fault. I chose to stay.”

“That’s not making it any better, buddy. But we’ll talk about your suicidal tendencies another day, okay?”

No, not okay. And he doesn’t have _suicidal tendencies_ – okay, maybe a little bit. Sometimes. When he’s not entirely in his right mind, because he’s self-aware enough to know sometimes he’s not quite sane, but… that’s not something he wants to talk about. And suicide’s a sin anyway, right? A mortal – hah – sin.

“She said it started after the accident.”

“How could she know?”

“Your dad told the priest, who told her.”

“Ah.”

“You should talk to her, you know.”

“I do; you know I do.”

“Yeah, but about… about then. Do you ever ask her about your dad?”

Matt frowns. “It’s the past.”

“Yeah, that’s the point. This thing, it started then, and it never let up.”

“But it did, right? I know I had nightmares at the hospital and after my dad – after I got to St. Agnes. But they stopped. I can’t have blocked them out for decades.”

“Well, when we roomed together, it sure happened.”

“What?” Foggy never told him!

“I figured it happened to everyone, and it was particularly bad after Elektra, but I thought that it was just a really bad breakup. But it’s probably been on and off since you were nine, and that’s not great.”

“So what, I should go see a shrink and tell them… what can I tell a shrink, exactly?” Matt is starting to be pissed; what does Foggy want him to do? What _can_ he do? Nothing. All he can do is to just push through and go on until the day he can’t, and then someone will probably kill him as soon as Daredevil gets too sloppy. He’s never expected any other end.

“Maybe there’s something that’s triggering those nightmares in particular? We could work on it, together.”

“It’s not your problem, not if you sleep without me.”

“That’s not what I’m gunning for, and you know it.” Foggy’s annoyed.

“You’re upset.” Matt slips a hand under Foggy’s old, worn shirt and starts gently stroking the skin there. He can distract him, give him something better to think about. Matt’s good at distracting Foggy, plus it’s always enjoyable for them both. And since he's not going out tonight, there’s plenty of time for fun things that will take their minds off this topic, so Matt takes advantage.

Foggy knows full well what Matt’s doing; it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. He’s called Matt out on his unsubtle redirections before, after all. But he doesn’t complain, and that's what matters.

Now that Foggy’s asleep next to him, Matt contemplates their earlier talk.

He remembers the nightmares right after he lost his sight; he’d wake up covered in sweat with his dad’s panicked voice in his ears more nights than not. It got better once the sheer terror of opening his eyes and seeing _nothing_ every single morning became the norm; once the horror of the last thing he’d ever seen – his father’s terrified face fading, fading – became less and less frequent in his mind.

But then his dad died, and if he’s honest with himself – he tries to be, sometimes – most of those months are a blur of sounds and smells and pain. That was when everything got too much; without his dad to anchor him, the smallest stimulus became a stampede of trumpeting elephants crushing stinking, decaying matter under their feet.

He doesn’t remember a lot before Stick found him, but he’s not surprised he had nightmares back then. And not that surprised, either, that he somehow repressed them after Stick. He is, however, wondering how he’s managed to suppress the awareness of it for so long. He can’t have been that – hah – blind, can he? Well, apparently he can.

Even if he knows Jess is in the Kitchen tonight, Matt still wishes it was a Daredevil night; he can feel his thoughts whirling aimlessly in his head, and he knows sleep won’t come easy, if at all. And if it comes, now he’s afraid he’ll have another one of these episodes and wake Foggy up again. He doesn't want that. Foggy deserves a good night’s sleep, and not only because they’re working hard these days at the office. He deserves it because Matt’s put him through too much shit through the years: all the lies, the half-truths, the pushing away, and then the clinging. And almost dying, _several_ _times_. Matt was a shitty friend and he can only hope he’s less of one now, but he’s not sure.

And Foggy – Foggy’s been a lifeline since they met, made him feel like he belonged, like someone valued _him_ , the awkward blind kid from the orphanage. Sure, Matt wasn’t only that, but everything else he was he had to hide, or so he thought. And even that, even those decade-long lies, Foggy had forgiven.

That’s it, he knows he’s not going to sleep.

Matt leaves the bed and goes to fetch his laptop in the bag he’s left in the hall. If he can’t sleep, then maybe he can get ahead of tomorrow’s work. He settles on the couch, wraps the old afghan around his shoulders, and puts only one earbud in; he wants to listen to Foggy’s heart and lungs as he works. He wants both to have equal importance because if he can work, it’s all because of Foggy who believed in him, time and time again.

The laptop’s fan whirs softly, Foggy’s breathing is deep and slow, someone’s listening to soft jazz three floors down.

He doesn’t feel sleep come, but half an hour after leaving the bed he’s snuffling into the couch’s cushions.

* * *

Foggy wakes up to an empty bed. The emptiness may well have been what dragged him out of sleep, in fact. He feels for the sheets where Matt should be and finds them cold: he hasn’t been here in a while. It’s about 3 am, and Foggy sighs. Matt’s theory that sleeping apart would help was bullshit, but maybe he’s decided he should do it anyway and be all Noble and Self-Sacrificing without discussing it with Foggy, in true Murdock fashion.

Well, no one ever said Murdocks were easy. But they’re worth it, and not only because of the sex. Okay, the sex is definitely a reason, but totally not the only one. Foggy stretches and switches on the light; after he blinks the glare away, his eyes fall on the slight dent in the pillow. Matt was there for a while, at least. Who knows, maybe he even slept a little. Foggy mostly hopes he hasn’t decided to steal one of Foggy’s scarves and go out into the night in the hopes he’ll get tired enough to sleep. Wouldn't even be the first time.

Foggy sits up in the bed and a sound from the living room makes him leap to his feet. It reminds him too much of that time when he found Matt bleeding out on his floor, when he found out about Daredevil, too. Shit, is he dying out there? He hopes it’s just a nightmare and rushes out of the bedroom.

Matt is conked out on the couch, curled on his side and one hand held precisely over one of his worst scars from that terrible, terrible night. It was sewn up and healed long ago, but Matt’s face says that to him, it’s happening right now. Again. As if once hadn’t been enough.

Foggy sits in the curve of Matt’s body, careful not to touch him. Not yet. “Hey, buddy,” he says.

“No hospital,” Matt mumbles.

Foggy’s eyes briefly dart down to check there’s no injury that he’s missed, but no. This is some sort of nightmarish flashback all right. “Okay, Matty. No hospital.”

Matt squirms, twitches, hisses, then makes a high-pitched sound like a moan that’s cut-off. “Sorry, sorry,” he pushes out from between his clenched teeth. How said teeth are still so pristine after everything they’ve been put through is, in Foggy’s eyes, even more of a miracle than Matt’s enhanced senses, but now’s not the time to ask for the secret to Perfect Pearly Whites.

“What are you sorry for, Matt?”

But he doesn’t get an answer. Matt only frowns and curls a little tighter, his fingers twitching. He looks… scared, actually. Matt never looks scared. Foggy wants to touch him, take his hand, rub his back; he wants to do _something_. But what? What’s triggering this? He looks outside, at the night that’s not really dark, not in the city.

_Nothing's gonna harm you_

_Not while I'm around_

_Nothing's gonna harm you_

_No, sir, not while I'm around,_

he sings. So yeah, this is a musical about murder and cannibalism, sure, but _that_ particular song isn’t, and he hopes the words get through. And, as usual, Matt seems to relax. His body uncoils; his face smooths out. The hand that covered his old wound drops, and Foggy hums the song again, watching Matt all the while.

“That’s it,” he whispers, and finally brushes a finger along the inside of Matt’s wrist. Matt doesn’t have any violent reaction, and Foggy feels emboldened enough to run his fingertips up to Matt’s shoulder, his neck, his cheek. “Are you better now, buddy?” he whispers.

Matt’s eyes flutter open and he blinks, a confused look on his face. “Foggy?”

“Hey, you’re awake.”

“Fogs,” but he stops there. Matt closes his eyes again and he sighs. “Go away.”

Uh. _What?_

“You’re not real.”

Okay, better, but also: not? “I’m here, Matty.”

“You feel pretty real,” Matt mumbles, “but I know the difference now. Real, not real… you’re in my head.”

Foggy’s brain goes right back to _What?_ It’s so late it’s practically morning, and Foggy really doesn’t feel equipped for any of that. “How can you tell the difference? How do you know?”

“The real Foggy will leave.”

“Do you want me to leave, then?”

“You’re not real, so you’ll stay.”

Well, he’s consistent in his not-quite-awake state, then. Or too-awake. “But if I leave, you’ll know I’m real. You’ll believe me.”

“I don’t want you to stay, because you’re not real.”

“But what if I’m real?”

“The real ones leave.”

The real oneS? Plural? Plural Foggies, or plural Matthew Michael Murdock’s Many Abandonment Issues?

Matt shifts and flops on his back, his eyes aimed at the ceiling he can’t see. He looks disturbingly awake now, for someone who speaks like he's got a loose grip on reality at the moment.

“It’s not new; you know it’s not. You’re one of them, the hallucinations. The voices.” He’s got a slightly disturbing smile on his face when he says, “She left us because we got the devil in us, son.” Then his lips curl and he rasps in a totally different accent, “You want a daddy, but I need a warrior. You’re too soft, Matty.” He raises his chin and now it is, “This city belongs to me, including you. You’re nothing; a fly to be swatted. Insignificant.”

Foggy’s horrified. “Stop it,” he begs – he’s not above begging.

But now Matt’s expression is all arrogance and sharp edges when he delivers, “You should have killed me when you saw what they did to me. Look what happened, look who I killed because you were a coward.”

Shit.

“I’m doing what you asked me to do; I’m leaving you alone. Isn’t that what you want, being able to be Daredevil to your heart's content with no one to tell you to think about yourself, too?”

Oh. Oh, no. It’s not any of the exact conversations they’ve had, but close enough. “I came back,” Foggy says. “Look, I’m here, now.” Once he figured out why Matt was being an asshole, it became easier to… not forgive, not then. But it was a starting point. “I’m here, and I’m staying.”

“No, you can’t. I hurt people. People get hurt because of me.”

“People get _saved_ because of you.”

“No. You can’t, Foggy.”

Can’t he? “Don’t tell me what to do, buddy.” Just you watch, he wants to say, and maybe he should just to see if Matt would make a blind joke. Maybe that could be a sign he’s actually awake, or in some consciousness limbo. “I want to stay.” He clears his throat and takes a deep breath.

_No one's gonna hurt you_

_No one's gonna dare_

_Others can desert you_

_Not to worry, whistle I'll be there._

Matt’s eyes are very bright suddenly, and the sheen in them breaks Foggy’s heart. “Fog?” he asks in a shaky voice.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You were singing.”

“Yep. Like it?”

“You’re ready for Broadway.”

“Good.” Foggy tangles his fingers in Matt’s, and waits.

“Why the couch?”

“I don’t know; I guess you migrated here when you couldn't sleep. Again.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

Okay, that’s new. Getting somewhere; maybe. “Why?”

“I should…” He waves his free hand at the window. “Who dies, who’s hurt when I take a night off?”

“Matt, we’ve talked about this before.”

“I know. I don’t want to feel that way, I swear.”

“How do you want to feel, then?”

Matt is quiet for a moment. His lips are moving; he’s trying to find the words. “Like… like I’m not a disappointment,” he finally whispers. “Not someone to leave behind.”

A disappointment? How he can be both so cocky, sure of himself, arrogant even, and at the same time convinced he’s worth nothing, without imploding from the strain… well. He’s kind of imploding, now. “Who’s disappointed? Look at what you’ve become, Matt. you’re a great lawyer; you do good for the people here, just like you’ve always wanted to. Your dad would be so proud; you know that, right? But you don’t stop there; after a full day’s work you go out and do even more good; who can say that’s not enough?”

“I fuck up. I’m not efficient; I make mistakes. Stick never finished training me, and he had his reasons.”

“Shitty reasons and you know that. You’re wallowing because you're exhausted; you know better than to believe that old asshole.”

“Why do you forgive all the shit I’ve put you through?”

“Easy: because there’s so much good.”

“I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You will. That’s how it works, Matt; it wouldn’t hurt so much if there wasn’t love.”

“Jesus made his mother cry. He chose a path he knew would hurt her, but he believed he was helping. Saving.”

Foggy smiles. “Are you Jesus now?”

“No! No. It’s just… is it enough? Am I doing enough? He died for our sins; it was all worth it, even breaking Mary’s heart.”

“So you think you should die, too?” Trust Matt to both be a prideful martyr and a suicidal, depressed duck at the same fucking time.

He doesn’t answer, of course; Foggy hopes it doesn’t mean what he fears it does. Matt will probably always struggle with all this, and there’s nothing much he can do about it. Be supportive, set boundaries, kick Matt’s butt when needed… Well. For all the years they’ve known each other, they’ve always worked best as a team, right?

“Let’s go back to bed; I’m not going to wait for morning sitting on that couch.”

“And you’ll sing the nightmares away?”

“I always do, buddy. I always do.”

Matt’s surprisingly guileless smile is the best Foggy’s seen in a while, and he hopes he’ll see it again and again in many years to come.

They’re both watching over the other, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Foggy sings is _Not While I'm Around_ from _Sweeney Todd_.


End file.
